


Nearly Sanctified, Nearly Broken

by resident_longwinded_anon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tumblr ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resident_longwinded_anon/pseuds/resident_longwinded_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas shows up at the bunker one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nearly Sanctified, Nearly Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on Tumblr](http://resident-longwinded-anon.tumblr.com/post/112759563386/nearly-sanctified-nearly-broken). Written during a particularly bad arthritis flare in my back, because a surefire way to deal with pain is to inflict that same pain on characters you love! ;)
> 
> Title from "More Heart, Less Attack" by Needtobreathe. ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_KEPEI5hzOs))
> 
> Takes place at some point between 8.17 and 8.21.

 

Dean’s awake when he hears it - he’s still not used to sleeping in a comfortable bed, so sometimes when he can’t sleep he’ll pace through the bunker’s empty halls or curl up on his favorite couch in the TV room. Tonight he’s halfway through an episode of _Buffy_ when the doorbell sounds.

He pauses the show and glances at the time in the corner of the screen: _2:14 AM_. Who the hell is dropping by an until-recently-abandoned bunker at two in the morning in the middle of February?

Whatever it is, it can’t be good. He stands up and tightens his robe around his shoulders. Hopefully it’s just some teenagers on a dare or something, but he grabs his shotgun just in case - the one loaded with real bullets, because there’s a salt line two feet wide buried in front of the bunker. He hikes up the stairs and cracks the door open.

"Who the hell is it?"

There’s no answer, just a low, aborted moan in a voice that’s all too familiar. Dean feels _something_ curdle in his gut, but he’s not sure what it is.

"Cas?"

Another cry, this one longer. And that’s not a good sound, not a good sound - Dean drops the shotgun and lets it clatter down the steps, hauls the door open and steps outside. His feet are numb as soon as they touch the winter-chilled concrete, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Cas holds himself like there’s paint drying on the surface of his skin and he’ll be slaughtered if he lets it crack. His face is so pale Dean can see veins twisting beneath the surface of his skin. He’s shaking.

"Cas?"

Cas’s eyes seem to focus on him, suddenly, and his stare is even more intense than normal. “Dean,” he says, a breath, a sob. He falls forward and Dean spreads his arms wide, catches him by instinct. “Oh, thank God, Dean.”

"What is it, Cas?" Dean asks, guiding him inside slowly. He shuts the door behind them.

At the sight of the stairs, Cas whimpers and buries his face in Dean’s neck.

"Cas?" Dean asks again. "What happened to you?" The last time Dean saw the angel, he was on his knees on the floor of a crypt, and Cas was running away. "What did you do?"

Cas shakes his head, his cold nose rubbing against Dean’s skin.

"Cas, buddy, you gotta talk to me. What happened?"

"Bad things," Cas says into his neck. "I was wrong."

Dean gives a dry laugh. “Yeah, I gathered that much. But who did this to you? What - what did they do?”

"The angels," Cas says, not moving, and then, "my wings."

A chill runs up and down Dean’s back, and he’s pretty sure it’s not the winter air this time. “What happened?”

Cas laughs, or sobs, or maybe just bursts into tears. Dean can’t tell. “I can’t tell you,” he says. “They told me not to tell you.”

"Okay. Okay, then." He’s gonna kill them. "Let’s get you down the stairs, okay? I’ve got lots of first aid stuff, you should see it. It’s crazy. Sam even updated it, too, got all these fancy new painkillers."

"Oh." Cas looks at the stairs and grimaces. "I don’t think - I don’t suppose you have an elevator?"

Dean smiles. “Not quite that updated, I’m afraid. Do you think you can do it?”

"No. Yes. Maybe." Cas pulls away from Dean entirely and sets his hand on the railing. "Only one way to find out, right?" He places one foot on the step and the other next to it. "Ow."

"Yeah, buddy, that’s good. Just - keep walking, Cas. Keep walking. You can do it - "

A quick indrawn breath, a hand grabbing Dean’s shoulder. “I’m going to fall,” Cas whispers, eyes wide and locked on Dean.

"Shh," Dean says. He places a stabilizing hand on Cas’s hip. "I’ve gotcha. I won’t let you."

Cas closes his eyes and screws his mouth up into a stubborn little pucker. It reminds Dean of when Sam was a toddler, playing with those shape-matching games, absolutely determined. He smiles even though Cas can’t see it.

Cas takes another step without looking, keeping his hand on Dean’s shoulder. The pain twists past his face, but he shakes his head once, fiercely. “Fuck that,” he whispers.

Dean has taught him well.

It takes fifteen minutes to get all the way down the stairs, but Cas does it. He opens his eyes as soon as they hit the floor, looking dazed. “I need a couch.” He pauses, tilts his head a fraction of an inch. That _thing_ twists in Dean’s stomach again.

"Let me carry you," he says, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. He can’t really bring himself to care.

Cas sags with relief. “Couldn’t have come up with that plan before we had to traverse the stairs?”

"No," Dean says, smirking. He sweeps an arm down around Cas’s knees and another around his shoulders, gently, picks him up bridal style. "I’m not hurting them, am I?"

Cas blinks up at him. “What?”

"Your wings."

"Oh. No."

Cas is silent the whole time Dean carries him to the TV room and leaves to get the first aid kit. He collapses on his stomach on the couch, one arm slung over the edge and the other tucked tightly under him. He doesn’t speak up again until Dean is done removing his coat and shirt with gentle hands.

"They’re gone."

It takes a moment for Dean to recall where they left off the conversation, but as soon as he does he drops a pill bottle. “Your wings?” The bastards took his wings. His _wings_. Dean is going to flay them alive.

"Yes." There’s another long pause. "You can’t tell. My back - it’s normal. It just - it hurts." Cas seems downright angry at that, full of the same righteous fury he was wearing the night that they meant. Dean can’t decide if he should laugh or cry. That _thing_ twists around his intestines and settles low in his stomach, warm and familiar.

"What did - why did they do it? The angels?"

Cas laughs into a pillow, bitter and all-too-human. “We - why do they do anything?” He shakes his head as Dean dabs at his back. Cas was mostly right; there aren’t any gaping bloody wounds to tend, no sawed-off bone edges or clinging feathers. There are two faint scars, though. They trace from right next to his collar bone, down parallel to his shoulder blades, and meet at the very base of his spine.

His wings must have been twice his size.

Cas mutters something into the pillow.

"What was that?"

"It was you."

"What was me?" Dean keeps his hands moving even as the _thing_ grows cold and curls tighter, even as his heart stops.

"They took my wings because of you."

Dean keeps moving, dabbing neosporin over the scars even though it won’t do a goddamn thing. The scars aren’t what’s hurting Cas. That pain is deeper, much deeper than Dean can ever touch. “What did I do?”

"You did _nothing_ ,” Cas hisses, raising his head. He’s suddenly fierce again, ever inch the angel-of-the-lord. “It was my fault.”

"Okay." Dean presses gently at the back of Cas’s head until he lowers it back to the pillow. "What did you do?"

"I was supposed to kill you," Cas tells the pillow.

Oh. “Oh.” Dean’s hands wander towards the bandages, but there’s nothing to bandage. “Oh.”

"In the crypt. With the tablet. Naomi - "

"Who’s Naomi?" Dean seizes on that. "What did she do to you?"

"I’m not supposed to tell you. They - she said she’d hurt me again, if I told you."

"Cas." Dean sets the bandages aside and clasps Cas’s shoulder. "Buddy, I won’t let that happen, okay? Whoever this Naomi chick is, she’s gonna pay for what she did for you. And you’re gonna be safe, okay? I promise."

Cas turns his head to look at Dean. “She said she took me out of Purgatory. She tried to brainwash me, apparently, but it, uh - broke down.”

"When you broke the connection." The _thing_ in his stomach raises its head and crows victory. “You saved me.”

"I did."

And he paid dearly for it. Dean brings his other hand to Cas’s shoulder and starts kneading the knots out of his muscle. He had a fair bit of practice with this, back with Lisa, although then he was usually the one receiving the massages. “They tortured you.”

"Yes."

Dean trails his fingers over the wing-scars. When he closes his eyes it’s like Castiel’s wings are imprinted in his brain, large and dark and beautiful. What a loss, what a goddamn loss. “It’s not fair,” he says.

"No."

He hits what seems to be a sweet spot near Castiel’s neck; the angel moans and the hand hanging off the couch spasms in pleasure.

The words that spill out of Dean’s mouth, then, feel so natural he can’t believe he hasn’t actually said them before. “I love you.”

Cas smiles at that. “I know.”

Dean laughs. He moves his hands to a giant knot at Cas’s lower back. “I love you,” he says again. The _thing_ revels in the words, flips in his stomach like an excited little kid. “I love you.”

"They’re good words, aren’t they?"

"Yeah, Cas. Yeah, they are."

Dean leans forward on the couch and plants a kiss at the nape of Cas’s neck. “I love you,” he says. A kiss on his left shoulder. “You’re beautiful.” The right shoulder. “I love you.” He trails kisses down Cas’s spine, and whispers, “You’re everything,” after each one. He kisses back up to Cas’s shoulder. “I love you so much.” Kiss. “I’m so thankful for you.” Kiss. “You deserved better than this.” Kiss. “I love you.”

Kiss.

"I love you."

Kiss.

"I love you."

Kiss.


End file.
